


Night Watcher

by Queen_OfThe_Universe



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Betrayal, But maybe not, Fix-it fic, Happy Ending, Harold is dead, Heartbreak, John is Alone, Loneliness, M/M, Post Return 0 (S05E13), Romance, three of swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28822407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_OfThe_Universe/pseuds/Queen_OfThe_Universe
Summary: An Alternate Universe story. An unknown extraction team was sent in to rescue John at the last possible moment. But by the time John gets out of the private clinic, Harold has yet to visit, nor has he heard anything from Shaw or Fusco. The only surviving member of Team Machine, John must learn to carry on alone. (I promise there's a happy ending!)
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 19
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Last year I learned how to read tarot cards and in doing a daily one-card draw, I once pulled the Three of Swords, which means heartbreak, loneliness, and betrayal. It took me awhile to realize that the card was not meant for me, but for John, and the emotions he goes through in this story, as I was working on it at the time. I hope that comes through here. But also know that there is a happy ending to this story. I promise! 
> 
> This was originally written as part of my NaNoWriMo 2019 project.

Day 0

John continued to fight as his knees hit the roof, still pulling the trigger until even his fingers were getting weak and he'd run out of bullets. He had gotten Harold to safety and The Machine's code sent into orbit. Nothing else mattered anymore. 

As his eyes closed one last time, he thought he heard a helicopter in the distance.

* * *

Day 10

Harold had managed to get John into a private clinic. It didn't surprise him. Almost nothing Harold did surprised him anymore. 

What did surprise him was the fact that ten days into his stay, after multiple surgeries to put him back together, he hadn't seen or heard from his good friend. He was beginning to suspect he hadn't gotten Harold to a safe place after all, and had lost his friend's life. This must have been Harold's last ace up his sleeve in order to rescue John if the vault hadn't been able to hold him.

The other option was that Harold had abandoned John, and that was something he refused to believe. Harold would not have left him by choice. So Harold was gone, and John was on his own. 

* * *

Day 43

John, having nothing with him except the clothing he'd been donated from the thrift shop down the street, made his way out of the clinic's rehab unit and into the strong heat of summer, much to the protestations of the staff who had figured out he would end up on the street that night and for every night thereafter. 

There was nothing else he could do, no other options he could take. No one would hire him without identification, which he didn't have. He'd only been allowed to have the surgeries and stay at the clinic until he could successfully walk on his own because of an anonymous donation specifically for his care.

He'd been told to rest up as much as possible, so he kept walking past parks and benches, bus stops, train stations, grocery stores, pharmacies, restaurants, rundown apartment buildings, condos, and plenty of buildings under renovation, until he found the safe house he and Harold had used the most. There was a light on inside, and he could see a man in the kitchen window. He appeared to be washing dishes at the sink. John watched as he turned to his side and bent toward the floor. When he came back up, he was holding a young girl, and for a moment, John's heart lurched and stuttered. Leila! But no. This young girl was too old to be Leila, wasn't she? He couldn't see too clearly from across the street. And then a woman appeared at the man's side with another child on her hip. 

No. Clearly that condo had been repossessed and sold to a new family. 

John stumbled on. When his legs nearly gave out on him, he stopped to rest on a park bench, unsure where in the great big city of New York he was. It had been a long time since he'd last had to sleep on a bench, but he'd slept on worse. Not having anything worth stealing on him, he didn't worry about pickpockets, or other homeless stealing his things. If they took his shoes, he would walk barefoot until he found Harold. If he found him at all. 

He fell asleep quickly, though his dreams were fraught with images of Harold getting shot and bleeding out alone, somewhere no one would find him, or know who he was. 

"Harold!" he called out to his friend. "Harold!" But Harold couldn't hear him, didn't know he was there, and it seemed there was nothing John could do but watch from a distance as his friend slowly died an agonizingly painful death.

* * *

Day 44

John woke up, groggy and upset. Realistically, he knew Harold had to be dead, no matter how much he'd tried to save the man's life. But he couldn't help his need to keep searching all of their favorite haunts, no pun intended. 

He made his way to the Lyric Diner just as they were opening, and sat across the street on a bench until mid morning when he was sure Harold wouldn't be arriving for a late breakfast. Harold had always preferred to eat early, as did John. 

He made his way toward the loft Harold had purchased for him several years ago as the sun climbed higher in the sky and tried to scorch the pavement. For sure Detective Riley's dump of an apartment had already been rented out the moment he was late with the rent. 

Looking up into the livingroom window of his much nicer loft, John thought he could see a man he didn't recognize pacing the length of the window, a phone to his ear. His heart clenched a little tighter. He would find no home here. 

His stomach growled, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he needed to eat. He walked to a park where he knew an organization would be handing out free sandwiches to the homeless. He kept his head down, and didn't talk to anyone as he stood in line. 

"Hey, you're new here, aren't you? What's your name?" asked the woman on the other side of the table. 

John just shook his head, took the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a water bottle and left the park to find a free bench a few blocks away. The painted metal was hot to the touch but with few options left to him, John endured it while he unwrapped the sandwich and ate it. 

Were there still Samaritan agents around? Who had won: The Machine? Or Samaritan? How would he even know? 

The only thing was to keep to himself and make sure he was unmemorable to others when he had to interact with them, and he would, if he wanted to eat. 

When he was finished eating, he headed toward Chinatown and the secret entrance to the abandoned subway station they'd used for their headquarters after the raid on the library. 

What he found there was decidedly unreassuring. The passenger car was gone, clearly in a rush, as the cables had been yanked and torn, leaving the inner wires exposed. The table where Harold had set up his office outside of the car had been overturned, the laptops gone, taken in a raid, or stolen by looters. 

Everything was coated in a layer of dust. No one had been down there in a long time. No one was there now. 

It was true. He'd failed in his mission to protect Harold. The knowledge of that admission weighed on him. His shoulders slumped and he stared at the pavement as he headed back up the stairs, and started walking, not really caring where his feet took him.

He'd failed. His last purpose. His last mission. 

What was he going to do with himself now that he was back where he'd been planning to end things when he'd first met Harold? 

Eventually the sun met the horizon and sunk beneath its dark velvety folds, taking with it everything that had been keeping John going.

Exhausted and hungry, he let his weight drop him to the curb, as he cursed the clinic for working so hard to keep him alive. 

"Fuck you too, Harold Finch," John whispered. "I wasn't supposed to still be here; You were. How could you let this happen?"

John was unaware of the passage of time, of whether or not he closed his eyes and slept. Maybe it was the dark hoodie he wore and the dark jeans, but no one noticed him, or said anything. No one asked if he was okay or if he needed any help. Maybe they just thought he was one of the thousands of homeless roaming around the city and ignored him just like they ignored the others. Then again, he reminded himself, he was homeless and roaming around the city. 

* * *

Day 45

When dawn arrived, John's whole body felt as if someone had taken a jackhammer to it. He'd been sitting hunched over the curb all night long. Now, he stretched out his muscles and uncricked his neck and back. Then he bothered to look at his surroundings. 

The library was just across the street, the scaffolding still surrounding it, with the blue tarps keeping everything hidden from the prying eyes of the world. His breath catching in his throat, John rushed across the street at the first parting of traffic and darted down the dark passage to the hidden back door. 

The alarm system was just as he remembered it. Harold had told him the override code not long after they'd first started working together. He used it now, and the door swung open for him into the old staff break room. Everything was dark, cool, and quiet with a deep musty scent hanging in the air. John crept inside and closed the door softly behind him. He stepped carefully in the pitch black, remembering that they'd moved all of the furniture and some of the appliances upstairs to be more convenient, but that had been before the raid. Things had likely changed since then. 

Emerging into the circulation work room, John tripped on something and nearly went sprawling before he could regain his balance. Putting his hands out, he felt a wheel, then a metal leg and something that might have been a shelf if it were facing another way. An overturned book cart, if he was guessing right.

He made his way even more carefully and managed not to bump into anything else in the workroom. Next came the large round circulation desk where the public could check out their books and other library materials before they left the building. Shafts of sunlight reached this part of the main floor from the high windows, enough that John could easily see the place had been trashed and then left to grow a huge forest of dust over everything. Dust motes danced in the pale light. Granted, it wasn't like he or Harold had ever kept up dusting duties down here, though Harold had kept the second floor almost spotless. 

In one shaft of light, he could just barely make out smudged boot prints that had startled the initial layer of dust during the raid and then been covered over later. The more dust John found, the more he relaxed. Clearly no one had been in the building in a long time. Perhaps not even since that day he and Harold had unceremoniously left in a rush to their new identities. 

In a way, he was relieved. This was the only place he had ever truly been happy and comfortable in his life, aside from a few places in his childhood. It was bad enough knowing that other people were living in his loft and in their primary safe house. It would have been one thousand times worse if he'd found the library in use by anyone at all. Unless, of course, the New York Public Library had taken it back and was using it as a functioning library again. That would have made Harold happy, he was sure. 

He only let himself relax a fraction at the thought that no one had been using the library in all these years. One never knew if a vagrant had wandered in off the street and made it their home. Or if the government had put in security cameras to catch any of the team members returning. He kept an eye out for intruders and spy cameras in each room as he went through them, but found neither. 

The stairs were also covered in a thick layer of dust that had not been disturbed. Up on the second floor, the computers had all been taken away and the generator was laying on it's side. There was broken glass everywhere amongst the books littering the floor. 

Maybe it was better that Harold hadn't survived. He would have been devastated to see his beloved books tossed so carelessly on the floor. Whole shelves had been lifted away from the wall and dumped. Books had been kicked or thrown across the room or had their pages torn out. 

John cringed. Before Harold had brought him on to help with the numbers, he'd been attempting to help them himself and there had been no time to organize the books. Once John was helping, however, he'd often return to the library to find Harold with a book cart somewhere among the stacks returning books to their proper shelves, and over time, the library had begun to look like an actual library again. He could see the pride Harold took in his work, no matter how simple it was, and the sight of Harold's sparkling eyes, always made John happy. 

John hadn't had much of an appreciation for reading before he'd met Harold, but Harold's love of books had rubbed off on him just a little, and now he was horrified on Harold's behalf. Recognizing a cover, he picked up a book that was half under the arm chair he'd brought into Harold's workspace: The Ghost in the Machine by Arthur Koestler. After The Machine had led him to the book he'd eventually found the time to read it. He remembered leaving it on the chair, intending to return to it, when they'd had to evacuate in a hurry. There'd been no time to debate taking a book along with him. He brushed the broken glass off the seat of the stuffed chair and put the book back where he'd originally left it. Maybe he'd pick it up again some day. If only to pass the time he had left in the world. 

The one place he'd felt comfortable, and it had been destroyed just for the fuck of it. This was deliberate, but also random. If they were looking for something, they'd done a pretty bad job of it. 

When he came upon the filing cabinet, his breath caught in his throat again. The actual files had been taken, but several photos remained scattered along the floor, with boot prints on them. Carter smiled up at him, marred by a bit of dirt. Beneath her photo he found Jessica, also smiling up at him. His heart ached the harder it pounded. He needed to forget the past. It was over and there was no going back. 

He squatted down and gathered up all the photos and placed them in the empty top drawer of the cabinet, to be forgotten again. As the drawer shut with a loud bang, John was faced with the silence of the building. Nothing stirred, nothing moved. Harold wasn't sitting behind him typing code, or explaining that he collected rare books, 180 gram vinyl, and Xerox Altos. 

John's heart stopped beating for a moment. He missed Harold's voice, and the sound of his keyboard as he searched for information on their latest number. Exhausted, John kept going, his legs feeling heavy, his head hanging down in defeat. There were still a few more rooms and hallways he needed to check to ensure the safety of himself and the building. His innate need ensured he made it happen, even when he knew his end was near and the point was moot. 

The hallways appeared clear of bugs that he would be able to detect visually. More books had been pulled off the shelves, but what else was new? 

Inside their makeshift break room, the microwave door had been left open, the light long since burned out. The minifridge door was closed, but its contents had been pulled out and left to rot on the floor. The ramen noodle packages that had lined the shelf had been torn open, the noodles dumped on the floor, and crushed beneath heavy work boots. John thought he recognized Harold's tea leaves and bits of his own instant coffee amongst the noodles, the tins for both strewn on the floor next to a container that had once held milk.

Harold's favorite green mug lay smashed in a corner. John's hands turned to fists. He couldn't pretend the sight of this needless destruction didn't bother him. 

Taking a deep breath, he moved on. 

He checked the third floor with just as much care, only to see more of the same: rooms trashed, no vagrants, and no bugs that he could see. He then made his way back down to the first floor, this time checking to make sure no one had followed him into the building undetected. When he found no one, he locked the back door, which he'd left closed but unlocked in the event he needed to make a hasty exit, and reset the override code on the security system. 

Up on the second floor again, he found the couch in the history section a few rooms away from Harold's workstation. He picked up a dark red fleece blanket from the floor, dusted it off, and lay down on the couch. John had bought the blanket for Harold years ago and it still smelled vaguely of his friend, a testament to the number of times Harold had used it to take naps or spend the night during an important case. 

Looking around him, John felt something dark filling his heart. He shuddered. This would be a good place to die, surrounded by the books that Harold loved, that he had saved from destruction the way he'd saved John all those years ago. 

Eventually his thoughts calmed and he fell asleep in Harold's warm embrace. 

* * *

Day 46

John woke up early the following day, his mind already thinking about Harold, the abandoned library, the train station, the woman at the sandwich table in the park, John's bleak future. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Bear. He opened his eyes again. It was probably stupid for a grown man to miss the sound of the dog's nails clicking on hardwood, or the feel of his cold wet nose bumping into John, greeting him at the top of the stairs after returning from a mission for Harold and The Machine. 

He didn't want to be awake. John wanted to sleep until his life force was depleted. The clinic had put so much hard work into rescuing him and ensuring that he survived, and yet, it had all been for nothing, now that Harold was gone, now that John's purpose was gone. For a man like him, death wouldn't come easy. It couldn't. He knew that. 

His stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since he'd eaten that sandwich and there was no edible food in the library. That said, he didn't want to leave the relative safety and comfort of this place. Instead, he got up, made his way back to their makeshift break room on the second floor, found a plastic tumbler that was still intact, and took it to the bathroom to wash it out and fill it with water. Then he remembered the raid. What if the water had been shut off? 

Maybe dying of starvation and dehydration was the way to go then. No one would ever find him and he could be at peace, perhaps, amongst Harold's beloved books, if someone like him could be at peace in death. Harold would want him to be. Harold had always wanted the best for him. Thinking about it made his heart ache all over again.

Surprisingly, there was water in the taps. It came out brown for quite a long time, but John had nothing but time, so he waited it out and eventually it ran clear. He drank the water, then drank some more. He wouldn't die of dehydration then. 

Before he could think about what he was doing, he had grabbed a broom and was sweeping up what was left of the glass board near Harold's ergonomic office chair. The board had been central to their work. That it was broken was a sign that that work was over and would never resume again.

He moved the frame downstairs to the circulation work room, trying not to remember the time he'd dreamt of kissing Harold in front of that board before asking him out to dinner at the end of a case. They'd had dim sum at one of their favorite restaurants a few blocks away. Conversation had been light, the company comfortable. It was more than John had ever asked for and it had only been a dream.

Cleaning up the broken glass was enough work for one day. Why bother when he wouldn't be around that much longer anyway? 

He went back to bed on the couch, and snuggled into the fleece that still smelled like Harold and long nights at the computer with multiple cups of tea to keep him awake and typing. John closed his eyes, and this time, he was able to fall back asleep with relative ease. 


	2. Chapter 2

Day 47

Hunger finally drove John out of the building and back to the park where he could get a free sandwich. The temperature had cooled a little, though it was still too warm for John's liking. The collar on his shirt was already wet with sweat and he'd only walked a few blocks. It didn't help that he felt light headed and his legs were shaky. 

Today the group was also offering fruit and pudding cups. He took one of each, and a ham and cheese sandwich, and turned to go when he heard a somewhat familiar voice. 

"We have services here, you know. If you need some help."

He reluctantly turned back, unsure why he'd done so. With his past, even though the FBI and the CIA had stopped chasing after him, he didn't know what had happened to the Samaritan agents, it wasn't safe for this woman to see his face. He didn't need to be memorable and he was afraid that he was. She clearly remembered him from the other day. 

Her tone was gentle and soothing. John liked her, even if he didn't trust her completely. 

The woman, in blue jeans, black boots, and a white blouse, pointed toward another table nearby where fliers and pamphlets tried to blow away in the warm gentle breeze. 

"We brought some social workers here to help find housing and jobs. They can walk you through the process of filling out the forms and whatnot. I won't lie to you, it's never as easy as some people make it seem, but it's a way to get you back on your feet."

John shook his head. He'd had a job once. A good job. But that job was over, his purpose was gone, and there could be nothing that would replace it. 

"You don't have to talk to them today, if you don't want to. I understand it's not an easy decision to make. But you can take a card and talk to them later if you change your mind, or when the moment's right." 

John shook his head again. "I... have a place," he whispered. 

Though she was understanding, he could see the look in her eyes belied her true feelings on his 'place', without even having seen it: "A dry patch under the bridge is not a real home." And she would be right, for the most part, but... "I have a... a... I have a home." 

The word startled him as it came out of his mouth, and yet it felt right. The library had been the one place he'd felt truly happy and comfortable... at home. It was his home, had in fact, been his home for quite some time, even more so than the loft Harold had gifted him. Maybe it was because Harold was there, and maybe that was a large part of it. Harold had infused the place with a sense of peace, especially with his books filling the shelves. Somehow, there was still a sense of Harold about the place, even though it had been trashed and Harold was long gone. 

"I have a home," he repeated, and the woman's expression changed to a small smile. 

"Do you have someone living with you at the moment?"

He knew what she was asking: "Who's looking after you these days?" Joan had asked him that once. 

He remembered a warm press of lips against his and shook his head to push the memory away. 

He hadn't bothered to look in the mirror that morning and he certainly hadn't showered or changed his clothes recently. Maybe he could do that later in the afternoon. Maybe his spare suit from days gone by was still where he'd always kept it. He hadn't bothered to look before. 

There were a lot of maybes in his life, but then, wasn't that how life was in general? There had certainly been a lot of maybes when he was working with Harold. 

Without answering the woman, he turned, and walked out of the park and back to the library, where he dug around for some silverware and a clean plate and began to eat his lunch.

* * *

Day 48

John had begun to do a little more clean up around the library. No matter how long his own life turned out to be, there was no way he could leave Harold's sanctuary a mess. The wrongness of his inaction so far coursed through every fiber of his being until he was forced to act on it. He'd started in the break room, throwing away the old food packages and scrubbing out the microwave and the mini fridge, then sweeping the floor, and scrubbing it where necessary. 

Now that the shelves were bare, his stomach grumbled, reminding him he was still without his own food for the long term and dependent on organizations for the homeless to get him the nourishment he needed. Tonight, he determined he would find a soup kitchen. There was no way he could keep going on one sandwich a day. He was already exhausted from the little amount of work he'd done.

He would, at the very least, clear the floor around the rooms he was using for living quarters. It only made sense. Harold would kill him if he knew John was stumbling around in the dark tripping on his books at night. Thankfully, Harold had left a few empty book carts on the second floor, with which to work. 

Picking up one of the fallen books to place it on the book cart at his side, John was startled to see money on the floor beneath the book. Paper money. In large denominations. There were several hundred dollar bills it looked like. 

He picked them up and examined them carefully. They were real. And there were five of them. 

_"John,"_ he heard Harold's voice tell him, _"Here is a list of books and their call numbers I want you to memorize." He remembered Harold handing him a sheet of paper one day, seemingly out of the blue. "And once you've memorized this list, I expect you to thoroughly destroy it. Burning it would, perhaps, be a good idea."_

_"What am I memorizing these books for?" John had asked, in puzzlement._

_"Because there will be a back up stash of cash hidden in them should we need them. And just in case someone else should breach our defenses, I don't want the money hiding where someone might look for it."_

_"So, you're not planning to hide it in the mini fridge then? Or in your wall safe?"_

_"No, Mr. Reese, I'm not." But even as Harold had seemed to be softly chiding him, he was also smiling, and John had greatly liked his ingenuity just then._

Now, John picked up the book again and studied the spine label as well as the title and author. Yes, it had been one of the books on the list. 

John was inordinately relieved that in the raid, no one had found the stash of money, for Harold's sake. 

"Fuck you, Harold," the words slipped out between his lips even as his throat tightened. "Even after your death, you're still trying to do everything in your power to keep me alive. Who ever said I wanted this?!"

His body going limp, John sat down on the couch behind him. His eyes burned with unshed tears. "You know I can't do this. Not without you."

There wasn't anything else for him to do, but keep going, clean up the library, put everything to rights, then maybe see where he stood with life. 

"I wasn't supposed to outlive you," John whispered, closing his eyes. "I wasn't supposed to outlive you."

He let himself sit and breathe for a few minutes, getting his emotions under control. It wouldn't do to flip out and trash the library further. Harold would never forgive him. 

He put the bills back into the book and set it on Harold's empty work table before looking for the next book on his mental list. He found it on the shelf where it was supposed to be, miracle of miracles, and found the hidden five hundred dollars inside. He put that one back on the shelf where he'd found it and went looking for the next one. This one, was not on the shelf where it should have been, but given the state of the books in general, John was not surprised. 

He spent time gathering all the books in the vicinity of that particular shelf off the floor, placed them spine up on a fresh book cart, and went through them carefully, until he found the one he wanted. This time he found only four hundred dollars inside, but it was enough for him to trust in the rest of his mental book list, at least for now.

His stomach rumbled again and with a heavy sigh directed at Harold, wherever he was, John headed for the staff bathroom on the first floor, where he'd rigged a shower head years before. In one of the staff lockers, he found his spare suit, t-shirt, sweat pants, socks, and yes, even underwear along with a bottle of three-in-one shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel. Apparently the members of the raid hadn't looked too hard on the first floor, or felt the need to trash the staff lockers. John found he was grateful. In the bathroom, the towel rack he'd also installed, was empty, the towel laying in the dust on the floor. It would have to do.

He had to admit, it felt good to shower off the grunge that had accumulated on his skin, shave the thick stubble from his face, and change into clean clothes. 

Once clean, he took some of Harold's money to the nearest grocery store for toiletries and food staples that didn't require a stove. At the nearest thrift store he bought essential items that wouldn't make him stand out: a few flannel shirts, a pair of jeans, black boots, and plenty of t-shirts. 

Across the street he zipped into a department store for several packages of underwear and socks. It felt strangely as if he were preparing to stick around for awhile, even as his heart trembled at the mere thought of it. He would make this work. At least temporarily. For Harold. 

* * *

Day 55

John had been to the Army/Navy Surplus store to get other supplies he would need, including a few knives he could wear on him for silent protection. He'd also bought fuel for a few of the generators in key parts of the library. The bathroom now had light when he needed it, and the mini fridge was working again, as well as the microwave. What more could a man want? In the winter time he would need to have more fuel for the heat, and he would have to be careful about which rooms he heated, but that wouldn't be for awhile yet.

Since then he'd begun further work on the library's collection of books, starting with Harold's personal first editions, dusting them off and reshelving them before they could get damaged further. In the room where Root had once been locked away, he piled the damaged books on the table, in the hopes that he could perhaps learn book repair and get them fixed and back on their regular shelves soon. He'd also started a very small pile of books on Harold's main work table he thought he would like to read at some point. 

He wondered if it were possible to simply spend the rest of his life reading until he ran out of food and money. He wasn't sure he wanted that for himself and was afraid Harold had been right. He needed a purpose, a job. Without one, he might go bat shit crazy. Or drink himself to death.

This job, however mundane, of organizing the library again and putting everything back to rights, was helping to take his mind off everything that had happened in the last year. It felt good to be doing something that would make Harold happy. But he knew it wouldn't last forever. Eventually, he would run out of things to do, or he would tire of the task. There wasn't much exciting happening here. 

He imagined a real, working library would be a tad bit more interesting. He could open a book and find someone had stuck some gum into the pages to cover up a passage they didn't like, or just because they had no where else to put their used gum. He imagined finding a pair of sharp scissors in the children's room, behind a row of picture books. Or maybe it was a pair of teenagers snogging between the shelves in a dark corner. 

John almost leaned around the bookcase he was restocking to yell at them, when he abruptly remembered where he was and kept his mouth shut. He then began wondering how long it would take him to go nuts living alone in the library.

* * *

Day 86

John was walking back to the library at 2am with two full grocery bags and sweat dripping into his face from the humidity, when he heard the scuffle and grunts of a fight, sneakers sliding on concrete. He knew he should butt out and ignore it, but he'd always needed to do the right thing and saving lives had been at the top of his list. It was why Harold had picked him, over all the other candidates he'd had lined up. 

The fight was coming from a narrow side street. Two men were doing their best to overpower a third. One of them had grabbed the young man's hands while the second began punching and kicking their captive. 

"Boys," John said in his calmest voice to get their attention. When they looked over at him, he said, "I don't think you want to be doing that."

"What's it to you?" one of them asked. 

"Yeah, this has nothing to do with you!" the other exclaimed. 

"Right. What did this guy do to you? What's your name?" John asked the captive.

"Hayden," came the struggled response. "And you don't have to do this. I was just about to kick their asses."

The kid had spirit. He liked that. 

"Sometimes even the best of us need a little help every now and then." John thought of the umteen times Harold had needed to rescue him and get him to a doctor. "So, boys, what did Hayden here do to you to make you gang up on him in an obviously unfair fight."

"He's queer!"

The memory of warm lips pressing against his made John shiver in the darkness.

"Ha. Aren't we all?" John replied. 

"Huh? What?"

"There is no such thing as normal, duffus," John reprimanded. 

"What? Hey, get out of here! We already told you this has nothing to do with you!"

"But you see, now it does. I stepped in to intervene because that's what I do. Anytime there's a fight, it's my business. If you try to hurt someone who's innocent, you're making it my business."

"Dude, we'll take you down along with him if we have to."

"He's not innocent. We told you. He's queer."

"Well, I guess because you're straight, that makes you not innocent either. Especially since you're beating him up at the moment."

"Look old man, do you want us to hurt you too?"

That had stung. He didn't look that old, did he? John carefully set down his grocery bags. "If it'll get you two to stop hurting my friend, Hayden here, then have at it."

They dropped Hayden, and together they rushed John. He neatly stepped out of the way, grabbed one of them by the arm as he dove past, and swung him around to smack into his friend. They both went down, knocking their heads against the brick wall of the building. 

Moaning and groaning they attempted to sit up but one of them was laying half on the other. John pressed his booted foot on a chest and leaned over them, listening to them cry out from the addition of his weight. He slipped his knife from the ankle sheath, and waved it at them for added emphasis. 

"Now, boys, you're going to stay put while Hayden and I leave. I want you to remember that there is no such thing as normal. Think on that awhile until you've fully grasped it's meaning. Do you understand me?"

Both men nodded, and he let them go. 

When it was all said and done, John was breathing heavily from the light exertion, and he had to admit how much better he felt. Maybe he needed to start working out again on a regular basis. Maybe he should take up running at night. It would give him something else to do at least.

"Hayden? Shall we get out of here?"

Now that he could get a better look at the kid, he realized the kid was probably in his mid-twenties, probably a college student, judging by the messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Still a kid to his years anyway. He reminded John of Daniel Casey. Maybe it was his inner innocence he'd yet to shed. 

"Thank you," Hayden said, moving toward John from the opposite concrete wall where he'd tried to stay out of the way. "What's your name?"

John paused a moment, taking in Hayden's proffered hand. What could it hurt? He had a common name after all, and it wasn't like he was going to see the kid ever again. 

"John. You can call me, John." He reached out to shake Hayden's hand and was pleasantly surprised by the extra firm grip. 

"John. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Would you... um, gosh, this is awkward, but... would you... could you... teach me how you did that?"

"Teach you how I did what?"

"That move. You just casually stepped out of the way like that, and you made it look so easy. I've had a few near misses like tonight before. I'm a college student, so I can't really afford to go to a do jang to take proper classes, but I'd like to learn a little self defense." He snorted. "Can't afford a hospital trip either." 

"Do jang is Korean for training hall, were you thinking of taking Tae Kwon Do?" John found himself asking, as he picked up his groceries and began walking away from the two idiots writhing on the pavement. 

"I don't know. I was looking at a really good Tae Kwon Do school last week, but it's so expensive. Then I read somewhere that there are a lot of martial arts from around the world and that I should choose the one that works best for me, or choose several if I want."

"Wise words."

"What do you practice?"

"Mostly Krav Maga, from Israel. But I've learned a few other things over the years that have snuck in."

"Oh, cool."

John was careful to lead Hayden to a nearby park where they found an empty bench and sat down. 

"What are you studying in school?" John changed the subject. 

"Bio Chem. I want to work in the field of agriculture when I'm done. There's so much going on there and food is so important. I want to make it easier for everyone to get what they need." 

John nodded. That sounded like a noble field, he supposed, not like he knew much about it, though it did remind him of Krupa Niak. If he was going into the same field, perhaps he really should have some self defense training. 

"What about you? What do you do for a living?" Hayden asked. 

"I'm a very private person," John said, finding himself using the exact words Harold had told him all those years ago. His heart clenched at the memory. 

"Not when it comes to rescuing strangers your not."

The kid had a point. 

"I'd still prefer not to say." Better that he didn't know John was mooching off an old friend and had nothing to do with his life other than clean a library that would never be used. 

"Fine. But will you teach me some self defense? I know I can't afford much, but I'll pay you what I can."

Harold would have wanted him to do something for the kid, even though John's first instinct was to say no and get away.

"No need for you to pay me anything. Here, stand up." John got to his feet and watched Hayden do the same. "I can teach you a few things that might come in handy."

"Great."

"But you've got to practice, otherwise it won't stick in your head. Understand?"

"Yes, of course."

"Your first course of action is to run away, if you have the opportunity. If you can't do that, remember the parts of your body that hit the hardest, your knees and your elbows." 

John placed his hands on the boy's shoulders and drew him forward, while bringing his knee up to show what he'd meant. 

Hayden's cheeks pinked. "Oh. Yeah."

"Practice on me. But go slow. In theory, if you're in a bad situation, you would drive your knee up as fast as you can. That will slow your attacker down and you can run."

"Right." Hayden took hold of John's shoulders, needing to reach up to touch them, and practiced shoving his knee upward until he'd gotten the gist of the movement.

"And if that doesn't work, drive your elbow into his stomach. That'll push the air out of him, and again, give you a chance to run."

John remembered something he'd told Harold once. _"Now listen, if Trask comes at you, put your fingers straight out like this and strike at his eyes."_

_"Poke him in the eyes? That's your technique?" Harold had asked._

_"No, that's your technique. And if that doesn't work you can always take your thumb and jam it in his eye socket and twist until you hit his brain."_

Harold had been less than pleased with the suggestion, and thankfully, hadn't needed to use it. 

John taught it to Hayden before they parted for the night, a lump caught in his throat.

* * *

Day 91

A fire had been kindled in his gut the night he'd rescued Hayden. It had burned low for days as John kept himself in the library hoping no one had recognized his face. Restlessness exploded days later in a need to get out and get moving. He changed into a black t-shirt and shorts, and went for a run, his first in a long time.

He paused in a nearby park to stretch properly, then ran on, blind to the street names and the people around him on the sidewalks. Putting away the books hadn't been enough. He'd known it would only take time. 

He'd only meant to go for a light jog, but here he was running his heart out, puffing out air, feet slapping the pavement hard. When he thought he was tiring, he kept going, spurred on by some unknown need to move, to run, to escape.

When he came upon a young Latina woman getting hit on outside a club, John was panting for breath, with no idea where he was, how exactly he'd gotten there, or what time it was. The bouncer was telling a newly arrived couple that the club was closing soon. 

"Hey, Chica, come over here!" Some idiot with long gold necklaces called out to the young woman. He was sitting on a low retainer wall, holding up a mini garden that had gone dry in the summer heat.

She looked him up and down with a sneer. "I'm not your chica."

"Not right now, maybe, but you could be. Yeah?"

"I don't think so."

"Come on, you know you want to."

Gasping for breath, and nearly bent double, John stepped between them. "The lady said no," he informed the young man.

Now both of them had their eyes on John. The woman looked at him in disgust and he realized he was dripping sweat something fierce. His clothes were soaked and clinging to him in obscene ways. "Are you lost, puppy? I don't need your help. Go on back to your mama."

The young man laughed. 

"I'm just trying to help, that's all."

"Yeah, well, thanks, but no thanks. This woman can handle her own."

"Great. Glad to hear it." Cowed, John turned and began walking back in the direction he'd come from. He still didn't recognize his surroundings. He was lost. She'd been right about that. But there was no way in hell he was about to turn back and ask for directions. He would just have to keep walking until he recognized something.

* * *

Day 92

Every muscle in his body was sore and aching the next day. John found it rather difficult to get off the couch just to go to the bathroom and get himself a bowl of cereal for breakfast. Yet he didn't regret his run the night before. He would do it again, only this time, he would be better prepared. 

John grumbled as he reached for a bowl and spoon on the highest shelf in the break room. Why did Harold always have to be right? He knew Harold would be proud of him for doing this. John was never good at standing by when people needed saving. Harold had always known that. He remembered the time he'd woken up zip tied to a bed while a woman screamed next door. Harold had known him inside and out, even then. 

As John ate his meager breakfast, he contemplated a workout schedule and a route that would take him through some of the rougher neighborhoods and parks, where he was more likely to run into danger. He might not have The Machine to give him numbers, but he could still find people who needed him.

It wouldn't be the same. He wouldn't need someone at home base doing research into their latest number. 

He wouldn't need Harold. 

John buried his head in the couch cushions and screamed, his body shaking in violent bursts of energy. He hadn't meant to think about it, tried so hard not to think about it, and now here it was, the memory flooding his mind, breaking his heart all over again...

_Warm lips pressed into his and John had the sudden realization that Harold was kissing him. Harold was kissing him. And then Harold's lips were gone, leaving John feeling cold and confused. Did Harold have feelings for him? After all these years of John diligently keeping his mouth shut?_

_"When I hired you, I suspected you were going to be a great employee," Harold was saying as John stared at him, unsure what was happening. "What I couldn't have anticipated was that you would become such a good friend."_

_A good friend? John opened his mouth to question Harold, but no sounds came out._

_As he reached for Harold, Harold was stepping away and closing the door to the vault, locking him in._

John's screams turned to sobs, tears and snot mucking everything up until he'd exhausted himself and lay quiet on the couch, unable to move for a very long time.

* * *

Day 122

John woke up gasping for breath with sweat running down his face. Ever since he'd remembered their one shared kiss, John had not been himself. Even the young woman he'd rescued from muggers the previous night had noticed, asking if he was okay. He couldn't help but think about it. Night and day. This time he'd been dreaming. They'd been on the rooftop together. John was trying to encourage Harold to escape before the Samaritan agents reached them. Harold wasn't going. Instead, he'd glued himself to John's side, and continued typing into the computer to send The Machine off to the satellite in order to save them all. When the agents had arrived, Harold had stayed behind John for only a split second. 

"No!" Harold had yelled at their opponents, stepping out in front of John. Protecting him. That's what Harold was doing. In the face of great danger to them both, in the face of bullets, for which Harold would never be prepared without John, he'd stepped in front, to somehow beseech the agents to stop, to spare John his life, or to save John by letting his own life somehow be forfeit. 

Of course it hadn't worked. It would never have worked. 

John found himself screaming as Harold fell at his feet, his chest riddled with bullets, his vest and shirt staining red.

John shot back at the agents with renewed vigor. He needed to take as many of them down with him as he could. There would probably be a whole fresh army standing in their place tomorrow, but he had to do what he could today, while he was still able.

When the bullets came for him, and pierced his clothing and skin, John fell on top of Harold, determined to protect his body as the very last thing he did. 

He thought he remembered kissing Harold's temple, thought he'd heard Harold whisper his name. 

Then he'd woken up, because of course one didn't dream completely through one's own death. 

He felt the hot tears prickle at his eyes and roll down his face. 


	3. Chapter 3

Day 133

John had slowed his jog to a walk to catch his breath as he reached the theater district. The late night shows would be letting out soon, but for the moment, everything was quiet. It didn't appear that anyone would need his help tonight. 

He had turned to start back for the library when he heard the high-pitched scream of a woman carry on the cool autumn breeze.

"No, no, please, take anything you want," a man was saying. "Look, here's my wallet. Just please don't hurt my family."

John rushed back until he found the narrow side street where a couple of thugs were terrorizing a husband and wife and their young son. The father and son were dressed in expensive suits and the wife wore a blue evening gown and pearls. John guessed they had been leaving the theater early from a nearby side exit. John picked up a broken cane from beside a dumpster, and stepped toward the thugs. Both wore ratty overcoats and worn out boots. One of them had long hair and a dusty bowler hat perched at a rakish angle on his head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," John whispered in his deepest voice as he placed the tip of the cane against the back of the man with the bowler hat.

The man froze. The other whirled around just in time for John to punch him in the face. He pushed the first man down and away from him. Both men scrambled to their feet, staring at him, breathing hard. 

"Did they take anything of yours?" John asked the family. 

When the husband shook his head, John told the thugs "Go on, get out of here. But if I catch you at this again, you best be assured you're going to jail. Got it?"

Both men were nodding as they tripped over their own feet trying to get away.

"Are you all right?"

The husband and wife nodded. 

"Bruce, honey?" The wife took hold of her son's shoulders and glanced down at him.

"I'm fine, Mom. I'm okay."

"Thank you," the husband was saying. "Thank you, sir. Is there anything we can-"

But John was already gone.  


* * *

Day 165

The weather was cooling rapidly for late October and rather than go for a jog, John decided to walk the city, taking in the bright yellow, red, and orange leaves falling from the trees and swirling around the feet of those who walked the night. It would do him good to see the place he lived as it was, and not through the rushed eyes of someone trying to hurry home unseen. 

New York City was the city that never slept. As one popular musical put it, it was also the center of the universe. And New York City knew it too, like a dog that knew it was the cutest thing in the room. It was in the way the people walked importantly down the street, even if they had no where in particular to go; the way everyone honked their horns, already late to catch their morning coffee at three am; and the clothing styles people chose to wear, even on a Saturday. 

From John's vantage point, everything was as it should be. Though, to be honest, it hadn't looked much different when Samaritan was in charge of things. He glanced up at a telephone poll and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Nothing screamed "Samaritan!" at him. He doubted he would recognize their equipment anyway, even if it was there.

Then he thought back, Samaritan wasn't the Artificial Intelligence that had needed extra equipment. The Machine was the AI that had moved into the phone lines for safe keeping and her company, Thornhill, had put up electrical boxes on each telephone poll to help house her. He remembered seeing the stylized "T" on the boxes before Harold had managed to rescue The Machine's core code. 

The white box up there now had a "T" on it, much like the old ones had. 

He didn't stop to stare at it, but kept walking, head down, suddenly in a hurry like an important New Yorker going about his business regardless of what was going on around him. What did this mean? Was The Machine still running? Had they won? Or were those boxes just old remnants from the time before that someone had forgotten to take down? 

His thoughts carried him all the way to Central Park, where he slowed down and took a deep breath. He wouldn't be solving this problem tonight. Maybe not ever. He would need to use the internet at a real working library to learn anything significant. He wasn't sure he was ready to know the truth. If they'd lost to Samaritan, he wasn't sure he could face that just yet. He'd already assumed they had, but didn't want it thrown in his face like a mud pie from a five-year-old. 

John's head jerked up when he heard a cry of pain. It appeared that an elderly man had fallen on the path ahead. No, a spry young person was fighting him for his bag, trying to pull the shoulder strap from the man's tight grip, while kicking him in the ribs. 

John put on a burst of speed in order to get there in time. He pushed the young man out of the way and gave him a brutal punch, followed by several more until the man stumbled away and didn't come back. John turned to the man on the ground and reached a hand out to help him to his feet. He handed his bag back to him. 

"Oh, thank you so much. You really didn't need to... John?"

John stared at the man for a brief moment, noting his black rectangular glasses, his brown tweed three piece suit with a plum tie and matching pocket square, and his very familiar face.

The man blinked up at him. "John?" he asked again in that voice that made John's heart break every time he fell asleep these days. 

John turned and ran. 

He'd gotten to the edge of the park when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sure he was being followed after his strange encounter, he put on another burst of speed and kept running until the feeling had gone away. Then he continued running until his legs were trembling like Jell-o and he could barely catch his breath. His stomach was doing flip flops and the dinner he'd eaten not that long ago was threatening to come back up. 

He made it to a trash can just in time. 

No. He knew he'd imagined the whole thing. It was only the shadows of the night playing tricks on him. There was no reason a stranger should know his name. The man had been calling for Joan or some other John. It was a common name, after all. 

John walked unsteadily all the way back to the library, taking as many roundabout routes as he could. When he arrived home, he was chilled to the bone and shivering, despite the jacket he wore. Using the electric tea kettle he'd recently found elsewhere in the building, he boiled water and made himself a cup of tea to steep while he took a hot shower. 

He drank his tea on the couch, surrounded by the warmth of Harold's blanket, staring at the wall of books opposite him. The tea, he realized, was Sencha green, a habit he'd picked up from Harold. When the mug was empty, he set it on the floor, curled up, and closed his eyes. 

His nightmare from the previous night had fueled his vision when he'd saved that stranger. That was all. He fell asleep just as the sun was beginning to peek through the windows. 

* * *

Day 166

John woke up in a sweat, screaming, rolling over on the floor. His shoulder and hip were throbbing in pain where he'd landed when he'd fallen off the couch in his sleep. 

"No! Harold!" 

He was still reaching out, trying to grab and cover Harold in order to protect him from certain death. When he opened his eyes he was hugging empty air, crying out for someone who was already dead. 

Shivering, he lay on the floor as he'd fallen, attempting to wrap his mind around what had happened, trying to tell himself it was nothing but a bad dream. 

He was still shaking when he picked himself up off the floor, and deposited himself back on the couch, wrapped up in his blanket, where he stayed for the rest of the day, the events of his nightmare and his run in with the man in the park blending together. He was sure the man had only looked like Harold because of what he'd been wearing and John had conjured up his voice and mannerisms. It had all been a lie fabricated by his own mind. 

He was going insane. That was clear. He was missing Harold too much. Maybe he should leave the library and live out on the streets like a real homeless man. Get away from this place that was affecting him. 

But for now, since he'd just gone grocery shopping, and wasn't in need of any other supplies for awhile, he determined that he wouldn't leave the library for as long as he could. It was probably for the best. What if he ran into that man again? 

John knew he'd been followed for some distance the night before. He couldn't determine by whom, though it hadn't been the man who'd been knocked down. Maybe it had been the one who'd tried to steal his laptop bag. 

He would never know, but in the interest of staying safe and anonymous, he wouldn't put himself in the position of being recognized for awhile. 

* * *

  
Day 180

John's self hibernation rule had to be broken when he ran out of food staples. He went out well after midnight, in an effort to stay more hidden than usual. He didn't care to run into people who were dead again and he didn't want his brain to trick him into thinking he was seeing people he wasn't. Maybe if he handled his business later, and didn't dawdle or do anything other than go to the grocery store, he would be less likely to see people he didn't want to see. 

As he was approaching the store at a fast walk, his breath steaming in the cold night air, he noticed the 24 hour laundromat across the street and was reminded that he needed to wash his clothes soon.

John did a double take. A black town car was parked in front of the laundromat and in the front passenger seat was a man on a laptop, the glow emanating from the screen lighting up his face and reflecting off of his dark framed glasses. The man looked so much like Harold, John felt drawn to walk over, get into the drivers seat and ask him how the new case was going, or whether or not they'd gotten any new numbers. 

Instead, he stopped by a newspaper dispenser for one of the free local rags. He opened the plastic door and pulled out a paper while keeping his eyes on the car and its occupant. A dark-skinned man he didn't recognize, approached and got into the driver's seat. With the new occupant blocking his view of the passenger, John watched the two men talking for some time. He was beginning to think it couldn't be Harold when the driver started up the engine and began to pull out of his space along the curb. 

John, unwilling to let this chance go just in case, looked frantically around him for an answer until he saw an older model Buick with rust on the rear bumper, the windshield covered in take out menus and perhaps a parking ticket or two. It hadn't been there long enough to get the boot however, and breaking in was a piece of cake. John hot wired it within seconds and began following the town car at a leisurely pace, two cars between them. 

The car with the Harold look-alike kept going at a sedate pace and didn't try any evasive maneuvers. This late at night the traffic was manageable, and within half an hour, they'd pulled into a short driveway to a nice looking town house, not seeming to notice they'd picked up a tail along the way. John parked two houses down. 

Both men got out of the car and headed toward the front door. It was hard not to notice the shorter of them had a very noticeable limp. John gasped. It was Harold. It had to be. Who else looked like Harold and had a limp like Harold. He'd once memorized the way Harold moved in an attempt to know when he would need overt help, when he would refuse any kind of help at all, and when he would accept subtle help in the form of hot tea. 

John found he couldn't breathe for his heart cracking open in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to follow the two men and confront Harold. His body disobeyed his orders to get out of the car. He couldn't move. Everything inside him had turned to jelly. Had Harold found someone new? Was that why he'd never come for John in the clinic? Hadn't he locked John in the vault to keep him safe? Hadn't he kissed him in that vault? Or had that just been a dream too? John gripped the steering wheel, afraid to follow and confront Harold lest he scare, or hurt him. His heart splintering into a million different pieces, he bowed his head. He would find a way over this. 

A drink. That would fix this. He could numb the pain, until there was no more pain, until there was nothing left. What was the point of sticking around now? Harold hadn't wanted him to live after all. 

He'd thought he'd known Harold all this time. They'd been so close and shared so much while still being very private men. 

What had happened?

* * *

Day 181

Bright sunlight glinted through the windshield, straight into John's eyes, blinding him for a moment, until he could block it with his hand. He wasn't used to being out during the daylight hours so much that he was surprised to see the sun coming up. He must have been sitting in the car all night and had lost track of time. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. He should have left a long time ago. By now, someone could have spotted him, which was the last thing he wanted, especially now that he understood Harold was alive and no longer had feelings for him.

He took one last longing look at the blue front door of the town house before he started up the engine of the stolen car and turned up the heat. He would dump it in another neighborhood and walk back to the library. He could use the walk, even in the cold daylight. Maybe he'd even stop and get those groceries he'd meant to purchase during the night.

The front door of the town house opened just then, and Harold came out, leaning on a cane, followed closely by Shaw. Yes, that Sameen Shaw. What the hell was going on? 

He watched them both get into the town car, Shaw in the driver's seat, Harold, again, in the front passenger seat. It appeared Harold was giving her directions as he pointed out the window. 

John followed them completely baffled when they hit the warehouse district, and he had to wonder if they were working a case, a number, without him, and if they were, why?

As they began to slow down, John began to recognize his surroundings. He'd lived here when he'd been homeless and helpless. Joan had kept him safe here for awhile. She hadn't been able to keep him safe for long though. The pain he'd held back then had sought the bottle, no matter how much she'd tried to keep him sober. He hadn't been able to stay away from alcohol until Harold had come along. In more ways than one, Harold had saved his life, which meant it hurt more to know Harold had left him without a care in the world. 

He saw them take the long drive up to the once empty warehouse he'd lived in, and wondered what they were doing. He drove past a little ways before he doubled back. 

He'd never returned to the homeless encampment when he'd gotten out of the clinic because he couldn't face Joan again. He didn't want her to know he'd fallen a second time, that he'd lost the one person who had been taking care of him, just like he'd lost Jessica all those years ago. He couldn't face the fact that Joan could have died herself since he'd last seen her. His heart clenched at the realization that he needed someone. John Reese wasn't fit for this world unless he had someone to live for, someone to take care of him. The idea rankled. He was a grown man. Why couldn't he deal with life on his own? Why did it have to be so fucking hard? 

Why was Harold going to the homeless encampment? That was the wonder of all wonders. Was he trying to find some other homeless man to save? If so, what about the one he'd already saved once? Was he really just going to let that go like it didn't mean anything? 

He watched from a distance as Harold went into the building alone. Shaw respectfully stayed outside, though she had gotten out of the car to lean against the front bumper, her arms crossed over her chest. 

She straightened up as he returned. Harold shook his head and they spoke for a moment before getting back into the car. 

John repositioned himself to follow them again as they left. 

When they turned right onto the dirt lane of a cemetery, John dumped his stolen car two blocks over and walked back. He found Shaw parked near the gate, once again leaning against the front bumper. At a distance, he wasn't sure what to make of her expression. Was she angry? Or worried? It was hard to tell. He skirted behind some trees so she wouldn't see him and walked further into the cemetery, hoping to find Harold. 

John spotted him limping heavily along a row of grave stones with the aid of his cane. He stopped in front of one and John circled around to approach him from behind, careful to keep his footsteps quiet as a gentle breeze through the grass. 

"I thought I saw you recently," Harold was saying. "I thought it was you who'd saved my life that night. But it couldn't have been. Could it?"

"Hold it right there," a low, familiar voice came from behind John. 

He froze. 

"Who are you and what do you want?" Shaw was asking.

John opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. 

"Who are you?" she asked again, taking the safety off her weapon. 

"Ms. Shaw, what's going on?" Harold had turned and was coming toward them, careful of his steps.

John itched to help him, but his feet were stuck to the ground and Shaw had a gun aimed at him. She could accidentally hit Harold if he moved and she fired.

When he was close enough, Harold lifted his eyes and met John's. He gasped and stared. 

"John?"

"John's dead," Shaw said. "Weren't you just standing over his grave?"

John sank to his knees, his eyes lowered to Harold's brown Italian leather dress shoes. And wasn't this ironic? He'd always been at Harold's feet, metaphorically speaking. He would do anything for him, including lay down his own life. Like a worn out working dog, or a lame horse, if he was no longer useful, Harold would have to put him down. 

With resolve, he found the words he needed. "Do it," he told Shaw. 

"John?!" Harold sounded horrified.

"If you didn't want me," John choked and took a moment to swallow the lump in his throat. "You could have left me to die on that rooftop. It would have been easier for you."

"I locked you in a vault to keep you alive!" Harold's vehemence startled him, but he refused to look up. Harold continued, "you're the one who made some kind of deal with The Machine to sacrifice yourself in my place." His voice softened, "I thought you were dead." 

"I was in a private clinic. They saved me with multiple surgeries and a lot of hard work just to release me to the streets to become a bum again. Why?"

"You're looking pretty good, for a homeless man," Shaw commented.

"I ended up at the library when I couldn't find you. Can you just get it over with? Please?" John closed his eyes, not wanting to see Harold's reaction. He could only hope Shaw had the sense to shoot him in the head rather than his torso.

"No, John." Harold's voice was firm. 

At the sound of a thump, John opened his eyes to see that Harold's shoes had been replaced by his knees. He would get grass and dirt stains on his nice suit, John thought, and wondered why Harold would take that chance. 

"You are not going to die. Ms. Shaw? Please put that gun away."

There was a moment's silence and then John heard the safety clicking back on and the weapon being holstered. His muscles relaxed a bit. He glanced up then, and his eyes met Harold's again. Locked on. 

"You've already replaced me. Let me go." 

"We are expanding our team as we're able," Harold explained. "We recently hired Mr. Turner to help with the computer end of things, but that does not mean you are replaceable. You are worth more to me than you could ever know." 

The warmth of Harold's lips crushing his in the vault came back to John then, as his head swam, filled with Harold's conviction. After all this time...

"Wait, I'm getting something from The Machine," Shaw burst out.

John reeled back to the present moment, on his knees in the grass, Harold in front of him getting stains on his pristine suit.

"Yes? What is it?" Harold sounded mildly impatient. 

"She says her predecessor did it." 

"Did what, Ms. Shaw?"

"She was able to get John to the clinic and gave them a huge sum of money to help him just before she went offline. That must be why we didn't know. You were in the hospital yourself for awhile. When the new version of The Machine came back online, we had so many issues, she likely didn't remember what had happened to John and neither of us thought to ask, seeing as so much time had already passed."

John had to admit it did make some sense despite what he'd been thinking. His anger began to recede.

"Can you give us a moment, alone?" Harold asked.

"Yeah, sure." The grass brushed against Shaw's boots as she stepped away. "Look, John," she stopped walking. "I know you and I didn't get off to a great start, but you have to know I never wanted to see you dead. Well, maybe in the beginning, before I knew who you were. But, not later. Okay?"

John nodded and she continued to move away.

"John?" Harold was reaching up, the pads of his thumbs brushing John's cheeks, smearing something wet under his eyes. Harold's face blurred before him and his breath caught. 

"It's all right," Harold murmured. "We're here. I've got you." 

His voice was a balm to John's frazzled nerves, and he found himself breathing again, if slightly erratic. He hung his head, listening to Harold murmuring something, drinking in the familiar voice he'd missed so much, not really caring what was said. His scalp buzzed with the gentle strokes of Harold's fingers through his hair, relaxing him bit by bit. 

John was sure he was dreaming and soon he would wake to discover himself curled up on the couch in the library, wrapped up in Harold's blanket, alone.

"I need to get off my knees," Harold was saying, as he steadied his cane and placed a hand on John's arm. "Come. There's a bench. Let's go sit down."

John shook himself of his thoughts and got to his feet. Taking Harold's arm, he helped him up and walked with him, supporting him as necessary. He belonged at Harold's side. John knew that like he'd never known anything else before. If only Harold would let him stay.

"You need to see this first." Harold directed him to the grave he'd been standing over earlier. 

John saw the name on the headstone and his breath caught in his throat again. It was his. Not his assumed name from the Central Intelligence Agency. No. His real name. The one his birth parents had given him. 

"I didn't even look for you." Harold swallowed, his voice full of anguish, and gathered himself again, straightening his back even more than usual. "At first I... I was angry at you for taking my place. I didn't want to accept it, but I didn't think it was possible for you to have survived. I'm very sorry for that, Mr. Reese." He sighed and gestured toward the headstone. "I'll have this taken down." 

"It's just John now." He heard the words coming from his mouth but he was unaware of the thought process behind them. 

"Just John?" Harold glanced up at him. 

"Kara gave me that other name and this one... it's not... who I am. Hasn't been for a long time." John hadn't thought this through, his own words were surprising him, and yet, they felt right, like a heavy weight was lifting off his shoulders.

"Would you like a new name? Or do you already have something in mind? You should probably know, I'm going by Harold Swift now, myself."

When John didn't reply, Harold said, "There's plenty of time to think about it. But John Falcon does have a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

John's heart beat faster and fresh tears were filling his eyes again. How could a name, a simple name, affect him so much? 

"Are you sure you want to share the birds with me?" he asked.

"Do you like the birds?"

"Yes," came the hoarse whisper.

"I will share anything it's within my power to share with you and I would be more than happy to share the birds, if that's what you want."

John kept his eyes glued to the top right corner of the gravestone as Harold's meaning washed over him.

"You kissed me. In the vault. I didn't dream that."

"No. You didn't."

There was a long pause and John thought he saw Harold's lips quirk up into something of a smile from the corner of his eye. 

The smile faded. "Was I wrong to kiss you?" 

"No!" John turned to face him. "I did-do want that." John's heart was racing, his mind struggling to keep up. 

Harold leaned up, pushing down on his cane to hold himself steady on his toes until they were eye to eye and John's arms automatically came around him to hold him up. Even through the wool suit jacket, he could feel the heat of Harold's body warming his hands. His heart skipped a beat at the intimacy of it all. Harold didn't move any closer, but his eyes flicked from John's down to his mouth and then back up again, one eyebrow raised, waiting. 

John's chest tightened as he pulled Harold in, wrapping his arms more firmly around him, almost picking him up off the ground. Their lips brushed as John whispered his name. Harold pressed their mouths together and John's tired soul melted into the warmth of the kiss, a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.

Harold's cane fell against his leg, no more than a brief passing thought, as Harold held John's face in his hands, his thumbs caressing John's sharp cheek bones.  
Oh God. John's whole body shuddered, his veins beginning to hum with life. He was coming back online again, as if he were Harold's Machine gone dormant for safe keeping.

"Plaid flannel looks good on you," Harold said, running a hand down John's chest for emphasis when they parted.

A shiver ran up John's spine and he laughed. "Thrift store chic."

"Maybe I ought to institute casual Fridays."

"Maybe you should."

John brushed a gentle kiss to his forehead before gathering Harold to him again, clutching him tight, unable to let him go for fear of losing him again. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking in the familiar scent of Harold's favorite shampoo and let out a long breath. 

"Hey." Harold recaptured his mouth, more urgent and exploratory this time. 

John let himself fall, then realized he wasn't falling, but flying, soaring through the air with Harold as his support and his wings. 

"Come on you two, stop fooling around!" Shaw broke the spell and the two men pulled hastily apart. 

Harold's lips pressed together into a small, knowing smile, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes shining brighter than John had ever seen them. The whirling hurricane of his emotions continued to spin as he picked up Harold's cane and handed it back to him.

"James says we have a new number. We've got to go."

John steadied Harold on his feet and held out his arm. Harold took it with a smile, and they followed Shaw through the gravestones. 

"I thought you two would never figure it out," she said.

"Who?"

"Figure what out?"

"Exactly." Shaw sighed. "If he's moving in, I'm moving out."

"Moving out?" John asked. 

"I do not want to have to listen to the two of you getting it on in the middle of the night. No offence or anything." Shaw shivered as they reached the car parked by the front gate.

Now John felt the heat rising in his own face and was grateful Shaw wasn't watching. 

"We've ah, been sharing living arrangements in our new headquarters," Harold started to explain. "But... maybe..."

"The library's safe," John confirmed as he held the door open and helped Harold into the front passenger seat. 

"I'll get us a house, John, if you're amenable to it. And the library! Oh how I've missed the library!" Harold was looking up at him, his eyes bright with happiness.

John closed the door and folded himself into the backseat, his heart overflowing with emotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my story. I really hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh, 2020 was certainly not the year I'd been hoping for. lol. I wrote several POI fics for my NaNoWriMo 2019 project that I'd hoped to edit and post last year, but almost none of that happened. Well, to be fair, the longest story, called The Tea Shop, I realized was only half finished so I had to write the second half before I could start editing and I'm still working on it. I'm hoping to get back to it as soon as I finish editing this piece. I'm super excited about it though and can't wait to share it with you! The others will need a complete overhaul, but we'll get there eventually. :-) 
> 
> Anyway, I do hope you enjoy this one. Thank you for reading and for kudos and comments in advance if you leave any.


End file.
